Destinies of Power
by Eridor4me
Summary: Two Gods, Xanthomemanon and Akera, scorn the races of Alagaesia. They talk about the previous era, which was destroyed by a catastrophic accident, the time when the Ancient Language had no power. Deciding to give that era a chance, they change fate.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

Mist threaded its way through the Varden's camp near the city of Feinster, a day after its bloody siege. Peace prevailed over the still camp, safe from the tramp of sentinels as they stood guard against enemies unknown. No one noticed anything at first, for the night was as quiet as any other. The silence itself was something odd to hear, as well as to feel, for hate-filled cries and screams of pain had but become a sound accustomed to the people's ears during the days of the siege.

The mist was even more unnatural, for it did more than block out sight; it dulled everyone's senses, blotting out consciousness as easily as a sword took a life until the entire camp; even the alert sentries, the Nighthawks, and the Urgals, who camped a little away from the humans were deep in slumber. Perhaps it was the first time they had the chance to rest in quite a while.

On and on the mist kept coming, and someone looking from the walls of Feinster would have found it an odd sight, for the rest of the landscape was entirely devoid of it. It was as though the mist had originated, and had spread, only near the camp.

Two shadow-like figures appeared within the camp. It was not in the sense that they were seen, they were more like entities. There, and yet not there. Silently, they slid through the camp until they were right in the center of it. Suddenly, one of the shadows solidified, turning darker and rose to a tall position, finally taking upon the shape of a brilliantly glowing bird with flaming eyes and a magnificent tail. It was airborne, but barely moving its wings. The mist immediately cleared around it. So bright was the brilliance of the creature. It turned a fierce eye upon the other shadow and said, "Akera."

The other shadow seemed to nod in reply before swelling up and turning into a horse. But it was no ordinary horse, for it was monstrous in size, glowing a pearly white. Huge wings rose from its trunk and a thin horn rose from its forehead, the tip of which would have cut through solid stone. If the mist was scattered before, it disappeared completely for a few feet around them, under the combined radiation of these two creatures. As though displeased by this, the pegasus, Akera, inclined his her head slightly. Immediately the mist flowed back, stopping only a foot away from them. With a toss of her proud head, she regarded the flaming bird. "Xanthomemanon. It has been long time."

Xanthomemanon inclined his head in reply, and landed on the ground, large enough to look Akera in the eye easily. "Indeed. I believe we last met during Du Shurtugal-"

"_Do not speak it!_" The cry, both mental and physical, would have torn through the thickest minds and killed any lesser mortals instantly. But Xanthomemanon merely looked at Akera as her eyes blazed with a purple fire and the skin became less white, looking rotten and diseased before her anger subsided and the skin glowed white again. Understanding emanated from his eyes but still, he asked, "Why?"

"That language of power...I wish I had never created it! It is the source of half the _mayhem _and _pain_ in this land."

"There was even more of all that before you created it. You remember, of course the-"

"Yes, I do. The humans of the precious era nearly destroyed their entire world because the magic in their minds ran free. They speak of it among these children - it was odd to know that she was talking about the present races of Alagaesia - they speak of it as a great disaster because of the manuscripts which suried."

"Then you did a noble thing. But this era seems to be faring no better. I think-"

"I know what you want to happen. You want some sport, do you not? This war is entirely devoid of any interesting happenings," said Akera in a jesting tone.

Xanthomemanon merely shrugged, and replied," I am what the humans would call a God of Destruction, am I not? I crave it, i feed on it, and i enjoy it.. Many souls have i harvested in the course of battle and given them to you, to start them anew. But this war is meaningless"

Akera eyed him, but her eyes gleamed with distaste,"Aye, i take them and create them anew, for i am indeed a God of Creation, as the humans would say. These battles are pointless to my mind, but it is true that we depend on each other."

"Yes, we are as darkness and light, and as the sun with the moon," laughed Xanthomemanon, his voice musical. He proceeded to look into the distance.

The mist cleared away from a particular point and a shimmering image appeared in the air. It was almost like looking through a window, into another world. The people in the image were unlike any seen in Alagaesia, for their very selves shone with a pure energy, and their shapes were slender and artistic compared to the sturdy people of the present age. To even compare them to humans was an error, for they were different, in mind, thought, shell and living.

Then the image changed, and the landscape was dark. Huge storm clouds obscured the entire sky. It was a barren land that lay beneath, the very soil red and parched with thirst. There stood an army of hooded figures, seemingly in prayer, for their voices rose and feel as one, giving an ominous feel to the already eerie landscape. At their front, on a raised rock stood a person, obviously their leader.

Rain began to fall, and soon the entire scene was obstructed. As they drew near the leader, all that could be discerned was a bright orange glow, piercing even the thick sleet of rain. At this point, Xanthomemanon sighed and the image disappeared.

Akera had seemed reluctant to look at it, staring fixedly at the blazing bird and uttered a single tone in a vibrant voice at the end of the display. "No." The sound reverberated through the air, even through the unnaturally thick mist that permeated them.

But Xanthomemanon's voice was fiery now, as he spoke with great passion. "The humans here are going nowhere Akera. You know it. Their 'king' has more energy in store than all of them put together ten times over. They will never win. You shaped destiny with me!"

"I did...but there is one part of them we cannot control. Their will: I confess i relied on them to make ample use of it-"

"And they failed. _Miserably_. Let us give the precious era another chance! I suppose i feel more for them because they were my first creation. They must get another chance, for they were shaped with reason and logic, something which we lacked dismally when we first made the world together. I have made countless on my own, but your spirit inspired the reckless part of me."

Xanthomemanon laughed then, and their landscape suddenly became blurred, until they were suddenly in a huge hall, glittering and magnificent. Curiously, the source of its brilliance was unseen. It existed and it glorified sightlessly. He went to the centre of that hall, flying soundlessly, and Akera followed, her soft steps equally soundless. And in the centre was a great hole, extending infinitely deep, impenetrable and impermeable. They stood near it, both of them, and looked at each other, as though battling mentally.

Finally Akera sighed, and said," Very well."

A sudden light glinted in her eyes, making her look more lively. As for Xanthomemanon, his eyes blazed with excitement. "It is a challenge, then. I shall change one thing in the previous era. If their destruction still takes place, you can change one thing in this era."

"A challenge it is then!" she cried, her voice vibrating as she laughed, a sound sweeter than nectar and more frightening than any other.

Xanthomemanon replied by flinging his head to the top of the never ending hall and shrieked a sound which shot through the land of Alagaesia, waking every living being before sounding like an enormous horn, the Horn of Judgment. The land slowly blackened, losing its lustrous feel and the humans disappeared as the mist surrounding the Varden's camp did, until nothing was left, only darkness.

A single white glow sparkled in the center. Akera neighed, and the glow floated towards her, and then entered inside of her. "The soul of a lost world," she stated, and regret ringed the edge of her voice.

"And the seed for a new one," countered Xanthomemanon.

He sunk onto the floor, his part of the process completed. The unseen lights which lit up the endless hall dimmed, as though in anticipation of the next event. Akera sunk her head to the floor, and all was silent for a moment. Suddenly, a brilliant ray of light burst through her, forcing even Xanthomemanon to close his eyes. As the light withdrew, Akera's entire body's seemed to be one, seamless source of pure light. Then, as the light dimmed further, the source was separated into a thousand tiny orbs, like the soul of Alagaesia. One orb detached itself from the rest, and floated through until it was lost from sight. Another blinding flash of light occurred, and the two Gods found themselves standing on a hillock. Dense forest adorned the ground below, and at its edge, on top of a tall cliff stood a single village, small and homely. It was night, and the crescent moon glowed brightly between two snow-capped mountains.

Akera sighed, and took off the hillock, traversing the distance to the horizon in an instant.. Xanthomemanon ignored her, and proceeded to fly to the village. Just as he neared it, he changed, becoming invisible. Not a single soul was seen in the village, save for a number of wolves, which were obviously pets and guards of the village. They seemed to sense him, but accepted him without hesitation, preferring rather to roll about on the ground and gnaw at huge bones. Xanthomemanon flew towards the very edge of the village, towards a two storied house where total darkness reigned. As he entered - passing through the seemingly insubstantial wall - he saw what he had expected. A dark haired boy sleeping soundly, traversing the endless maze of dreams. On this boy did the whole challenge - his part of the challenge - rest.

He bent towards the sleeping figure, and blew gently on him. As the boy stirred, he vanished immediately, leaving that land as if he had never been there. At that same instant, Akera awoke a girl, in a different house, in a different village, in a different part of that land. The pieces were set, and the game had begun. History had changed: For the better or worse - only time would tell.


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER – 1

The little village of Tridon was nothing more than a speck in the great land of Alesia. Along the western side of this great land lay the mighty mountains of Belfar. Surrounding these was the lush forests of Jelnair, known for its fierce inhabitants and dangerous, crooked trails. At the very interior of this jungle lay this particular village, on a high cliff, which, mercifully, was not frequented by the beasts of the forest. The inhabitants were a curious race, known to the outside world as the Sildrefars.

This curious name was probably from the fact that every one of their kind – no matter how young - had lustrous, shining silver hair, which they usually wore freely, or else cut short and used beeswax to fix it into spiky, permanent shapes. What the inhabitants themselves called each other was quite unknown, for no one had ever been to one of their villages to find out for themselves. There was no other race on earth that could compare to the archery of these people, the hunters of the wild. Even more powerful was their magic, which was said to be dazzling, when honed rigorously. Sadly, very few of these tribes remained, keeping within their leafy borders.

At present, it lay slumbering silently under the bright crescent moon. At the far end of their village stood the house of the man who was perhaps the most important. Though the rest of the world did not consider a Healer to be so very important, it was he, the Nerswon (a name borrowed from the father of the craft) who lived there. His name was Glodin, the village's only Healer and potion maker.

In his house, in the place which would normally have been used as a loft, slept a boy, with eyes as green as the leaves of a forest during springtime, and hair as silvery as the tip of a spear.

He was probably the most unimportant person in the village, if status was taken into account. But, where fraternization was concerned, he was second to no one. Being on excellent terms with everyone in the village, he was welcomed everywhere and granted special concessions by those who were in power. He was an able assistant and a cheerful smile was ever on his lips. He was, by everyone's standards, 'a thumping young lad.' Thus was the nature of this boy, whose name was Eridor, and on whom the future of Alesia rested.

At present, however, he was deep in the wild thicket of sleep, fighting a dozen monsters at the same time to achieve the 'ultimate prize,' a sweet potato, found only in the eastern part of the land. As he tore apart every one of the monsters with his mighty sword, the dream suddenly changed.

_Mist...mist everywhere…it was compressing him in, forcing his to close his eyes and wait, unable to breathe…or even hear…suddenly, it cleared, and he found himself standing on a wide plain, with soil as red as the blood in his veins. And as he stood there, it seemed to him that there were a great many others besides him, invisible yet able to be heard. The moon was __**red**__, a color he had never observed in it before. Then again the mist drew in around him and he suffered the pangs of his strange imprisonment yet again until he found himself standing on the peak of a mountain whose bottom he could not fathom. Then, a great voice, terrible and mighty to hear, spoke to him "__**Your world is in danger. Go to the city of Ondres, which lies to the north of your land." **__Frightened and shivering, although he knew not why, Eridor spoke, and his voice appeared no more than a whisper in comparison with the other voice "__**But what can I do? Tell me more!"**__ But the voice did not speak again, and mist closed in around him. Then, a brilliant orange light flared up in front of him, and he saw the outline of an enormous bird, and a gust of strong wind flung him off the ground he stood on, until darkness rushed up to meet him, and in his last moments of consciousness, he heard a voice say softly__,__**Go…**_

Eridor woke with a start, gasping in great gulps of air. The dream, an oddly real one, had left him shaken. The dimly lit room nearly blinded him after his eyes had been accustomed to the whiteness of his dream for so long. He pushed himself up on rough pillows and squinted until he could focus again on his room. His breathing gradually calmed down, and pure confusion was replaced by softer emotions, like curiosity. _What was that dream? It was so real and lifelike. What did that voice tell me to do?_ he wondered, alarmed that he had already forgotten.

Sighing, he got up from his bed, sinking his leg into the coarse, yet warm boots that all villagers wore. Groping in the semi-darkness, he located his thick fur coat, and pulled it over his shabby tunic. Last of all, he stuffed a wad of cotton in each of his ears, to keep out the wind from infecting his ears. Ready, he decided to take a walk in the nearby woods to clear his mind. It was safe, for the wild beasts hunted at this time, and never frequented the riverside. So that was where he decided to go: the River Siren, named for the weird wails that emanated from it during summer months. It was said that ghosts cried for their lost lives there, but more sensible Elders had suggested otherwise.

He nearly smiled, as the memory of various men, children and women crowded around the river coursed through his mind. Some had taken it into their heads to dive into the river while other, more reluctant villagers examined the objects nearby, as though hoping to find an explanation there. Their eyes were sharp, and even minute details were not lost on them. But their efforts were in vain, until one young diver found a huge rock with various cracks in it. Upon coming closer, he could hear a faint moaning sound. During summer, when the snow of the hills melted, the water would doubtlessly flow faster, producing the shrieking sound they had heard. And the decision was duly taken to name the river, Siren.

The night was oddly bright; only on full moon days did it achieve this level of brightness. As he stepped outside, the cold seemed to strike him like a hammer, despite the protective clothing that he wore. Mist bloomed around his face every time he breathed, and his hands were already numb with cold. Cursing rigorously under his breath, he proceeded to walk upon the path that led to the village gates. As his stride carried him through centre of town, sharp ears swiveled and no less than twenty wolves jumped to their feet, relaxing when they smelled his all-too-familiar scent. For, his fraternization had extended even to these wolves, and each one of them had received some delicious scrap or other from him during the course of the years. Now they went back to gnawing their bones, which left him wondering how they could do it all day without pausing.

Two of them, however, left the pack and ran to him, stopping short and wagging their tails excitedly, eyes gleaming brightly in the darkness. Smiling, he fondled his pets, which had grown with him since he was ten. His master, someone he regarded as his father, had presented them to him, and their bond ran deep, deeper than physical contact. "Shadow, Sinnear, how goes your day?" he enquired of them, addressing the jet black one first and the silvery one next. Then, he continued his walk through the village, until he stood at the edge of the steep cliff. This was the part he would enjoy the most.

Angling his foot delicately to reach a rock which had been wedged there, he pushed it with all his might, jumping on it just in time before it slid down the cliff. Faster and faster it sped, until his surroundings became a blur and his eyes watered, before freezing in the chill. As he reached the bottom, he jumped off, only to land on a pile of honeysuckle, which the children would place there, before proceeding to play the rock sliding game. He remained crouched there, covering his eyes until they melted, and slowly stood. _By Verlon_,_ that's the last time I'll slide during winter_. But this resolution would never last, and he knew it.

Just then, the two wolves collided into him, flung off the cliff by the speed of their ascent. He groaned, shifting beneath their combined weight. _Today is my day of redemption for my sins, it would seem__,_ he thought, wincing as they got off him.

Finally, order was restored and he proceeded along the riverside silently, staring deep into its dark water. After all those hilarious incidents, the memory of his dream still haunted him. _A plain with red soil, standing on top of a mountain, a voice telling me I'm Alesia's savior…like that would be possible__,_ he thought with a snort, kicking a pebble into the water. _The most that I will ever accomplish is to succeed my master in his craft as a Healer_. He was nothing but a commoner, not a savior. The thought was not an encouraging one, but it was true; his mind had become reconciled to it years ago.

Only then did he realize that Sinnear and Shadow were no longer with him. _They must have gone off into the woods, _he decided, and continued his walk. They knew the way back, and nothing would happen to them. _I need some time to think,_ he realized, for despite all his skeptic comments , his mind refused to let go of it. He made straight for his favorite spot, a huge beech tree with wide sprawling branches. He climbed up the trunk nimbly, and settled himself in a crook. _A pale red moon, gleaming over a red, cracked land…_ the vision beset him again, as soon as he closed his eyes. _What could possibly be happening?_ he pleaded of the gods, begging for some level of understanding.

And they replied. His alert ears swiveled – another peculiarity of his race – as they caught the faintest trace of wood crunching under feet. He waited breathlessly, wondering if it was another villager. Another set of footfalls were also heard, this one heavy, clumsy and in the opposite direction. His doubt was settled, no villager ever walked so clumsily. Everyone was fleet and light-footed. He pressed back into the tree, keeping his eyes half shut so that they would not gleam in the moon's reflection. Having concealed himself thus, he waited, not knowing why he was so tensed. After all, anyone could wander in the woods…

But some sense inside of him warned him that whatever presence there was, was hostile to him. Suddenly, a dark, stout figure appeared, obviously the heavy footed one. He plodded to the base of the tree, and flung himself on the ground, panting. "A fine job, asking me to meet _him_ at this dump," he muttered between deep breaths, hardly taking care to hide his voice. Eridor tensed as the other person came closer. This one even _sounded_ more dangerous - with the light, sure, panther-like stride of a trained killer. The figure under the tree went on ranting, obviously indifferent to the other footfalls. "For five hundred crowns, I'd—" he stopped short, obviously struck with fear.

"What are you doing?" came a silky voice, smooth, and containing concentrated anger. Then the owner appeared, and Eridor caught sight of a powerful, six-foot tall figure, with a traveling cloak fastened around him, hooded to hide his face. At his hip hung a razor sharp sword, which Eridor recognized as a rapier of the finest make, just like his master had. This person was dangerous, very much so.

The stout person stumbled to his feet, quaking with fear. "No-nothing milord. I h-have a message from H-Him." The tall person stood perfectly still, staring at the other with awful intensity.

"Speak."

"You are to meet him at the city of Ongred in five months. The- the package must be ready by then." The man spoke more confidently now, and some of his soppish behavior began to return. His stance grew less rigid and he scratched his unshaved chin as he said, "And between you and me, I woul'n mind a wee bit o' advance of the reward."

The other person was silent for a second. Then, in a dangerously agreeable voice, he said, "I will give you the entire reward now."

Faster than the eye could see, he whipped out his rapier and plunged it through the unfortunate man's heart. As the man crumpled around a pool of crimson, the killer calmly cleaned his sword and sheathed it again. "The reward for hired filth is death." Eridor was white with fear, and his sweaty hand slipped on the rough bark, producing a rustling sound. The assassin whipped around immediately, scanning the forest for the source. As though fate had sent it that way, another round of rustling occurred, followed by a doe which sprang out of the woods, took one look at the man, and fled back to the dark interior.

The assassin relaxed, and looked at the body of the dead man. At this point, when his face was against the moon, Eridor caught a glimpse of a long, fine, nose whose shape was ruined by three thin scars, intersecting each other. _Oh no, what's happening?_ Eridor's fear and sense of revulsion returned as the ground underneath the dead man seemed to wriggle, and, like water, moved all over the body, sucking it underneath before solidifying, and becoming normal again. A long sigh was heard, and the assassin rested against the tree briefly, as though tired.

_Don't look up,_ begged Eridor, scared to death.

After some time, the killer drew himself upright again. Casting one final sweeping glance across the ground, he swirled around and walked out of sight. Eridor remained where he was, too scared to come down._ Magic…he must have been very strong_. While magic was commonplace, sustaining a feat like that required years of honing the mind. One small mistake and any number of leagues around the person might have liquefied, killing untold hundreds and the caster as well. Then, convinced that he was gone, Eridor dropped to the ground and ran back to the village, still full of what he had just witnessed: _a killing._


	3. Chapter 2

"Milord! They have taken our outer defenses. Our forces – I regret to say – have been completely routed," said the soldier, kneeling before a tall man with hair of a blood red color. The mood in the dark little house was gloomy, and the scent of death hung heavily in the air. The man who spoke was trembling, not in fear, but with suppressed rage, his body covered with blood stains, some of them not his own. Evena looked at her father gloomily from her small corner of the tiny, as he knit together his eyebrows, which were red too, and his hands gripped the pommel of the sword which hung at his side. She could play no part in this situation, and her only hope was that they all got out alive.

"We have been betrayed," the messenger continued, the reason for his anger evident, "The men at the gates were bribed, if the accounts of the survivors are true. They opened the gates to the enemy."

_Why would they do that?_ she thought, as she placed her head in her hands, trying to keep out the sense of impending doom. Her village was a tiny speck in the desert of Eastern Alesia. The main village itself was in an oasis, while the chieftain's house – her father's house – was high in the mountain which overlooked it. It was here that the remnants of the massacre of her village now gathered, awaiting what was possibly their final day in that world. Outside, she could hear the trembling voice of her priest as he performed the battle prayer, which assured their warriors of a place in Heaven if they died.

"Why?!" boomed her father's voice, and Evena was pulled from her reverie to see her father, standing with his ruby eyes quivering – with rage or fear she could not tell - "Why do they attack us? Do we know who they are? Have we ever done them wrong? Who are they?" she could see sorrow and anger reflected in his voice in equal measures.

_True, they just showed up out of nowhere and started to attack us. But we will not die easily, for we are the warriors of House Amdenor, _she thought proudly. She rose and went to her father's side. "What do we do now father?" she asked coolly, knowing that fear in her voice would only make him more uncertain. But there was no denying that, mighty warriors though they were, the situation was an almost impossible one.

Drogan rubbed his eyes wearily and replied, "What can we do?" Then, collecting himself, he drew himself to his full height and drew his sword, pointing it high above his head, as a commander addressing his troops should . "Go," he told the soldier kneeling at his feet. "Go and rally those who remain. Tell them to position themselves as a pincer at the foot of this house. The high walls of the outer courtyard will offer some protection. Station the archers in the trees nearby. They will fire if the enemy draws near. We will travel to the Great One's hall fighting." The man bowed, his eyes shining with passion as he departed.

_The nightmare will begin soon,_ Evena thought.

Her father looked at her. "I have to lead the troops. Hide here. If we lose—," his eyes contained the unsaid meaning and Evena, hating herself for it, nodded almost imperceptibly, and hugged him tightly.

"I must go," he said, pulling her away from him. His eyes shone with love as he said, "Behave worthy of our House—make our ancestors proud." Then he was gone, his sword flashing in the dim lamp light.

_No…how can it end like this?…we must win! I can't lose him, I've just lost Mother!_ she thought, standing rooted to the spot. She heard Drogan speaking outside the house, instilling courage into the warriors, leading them to their doom with their head held high. There were twenty-odd swordsmen, and about fifteen archers. From what she had heard, the opposing force was at least ten times their size. She shuddered, but fulfilled her father's last wishes, and went to the back of the house, where the sound of the men at the front grew dimmer by the second. _It should be somewhere here,_ she thought to herself, and groped in the semi-darkness until her hand came into contact with a carving on the otherwise smooth ground. She continued, tracing the carving with her hand until she reached its head.

The carving was in the shape of a horse standing on its forelegs as it gazed up at a burning sun. Feeling for its head, she found a small groove above it and pulled on it hard, grunting with the effort. Slowly, the head moved lower and lower until the horse looked straight ahead. Then, with a small grinding sound, the floor near it slid away, revealing a small gap about two feet square. It was the only thing which could be associated with 'royalty' in that house, and it was where precious objects could be stored. Now it stood empty, for her father despised hoarding of wealth, and had sold all their treasure to merchants and used the return to improve the village. She stood there, despising herself more every second and then spun around._ I need to see him one more time,_ she thought, and fought to blink back tears as she ran to the front and peeped out through the window. He was at the left arm of the pincer, and appeared calm and resolute.

"They are coming, they are coming!" shouted a voice, and she caught the faint twang of bowstrings, then the thumps of arrows on wooden shields or on bare flesh—then screams piercing the night. She heard her father shouting, and the men drew their swords, ready for the last fight. Bodies dropped from trees as the enemy returned fire, until their archers were completely routed. Then she heard them as they gathered behind the great wall of the courtyard – far greater than the house – and began to yell, as their archers opened fire yet again. The defenders raised their shields and moved to the gates, which was shuddering; the enemy apparently had a battering ram. _No! This is happening too easily…_ Her heart went out to the men as the door was blasted open and the enemy entered. She had a fleeting glimpse of a mass of crimson uniforms before turning away and fleeing.

_You can't die already; you just can't,_ she thought desperately and turned back to the alcove, this time squeezing her frame into it. As she was quite tall, being fifteen years old, it was a tight fit, even though she was lean and muscular. With her face raised to the ceiling above she prayed, her heart bursting at the sound of wild, hoarse yelling, and the clash of swords as the men tore into each other. The war – the tiny little war – had begun, and the screams of men in pain rang loudly in her ears as she found a lever in the alcove and pushed it, closing the gap again. As it ground shut, her ruby eyes, quivering with emotion, gleamed brightly and then, all was dark. In the empty atmosphere, as she curled up with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, tears began to fall, streaming across her face and dropping on the ground. She fought to forget that at that hour, the village where she had lived her entire life was drawing its last breath, and staining the land scarlet as a tribute to what they had left behind: her.

The pale, cold moon traveled down the sky, paving the way to a brilliantly lit sun as Evena slipped from a dark nightmare into the blissful blankness of sleep.


End file.
